


A Little Initiative

by Harry_Saxon



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Submission, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harry_Saxon/pseuds/Harry_Saxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are in the Year That Never Was days.<br/>As The Master was trying to have fun with him, The Doctor has done something and The Master doesn't like it because he doesn't appreciate him taking initiative.</p><p>So he's going to have to teach him a long, painful lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rather Silent Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> I intend to make the story quite abusive so I guess I'll keep adding warnings as I go.  
> The Doctor is in his usual appearance (de-aged by reversing the effects of the Laser, so that The Master can have more fun)

The Doctor whimpered softly.  
He was lying on his stomach again. He didn’t like it that much, because his neck hurt whenever he tried to raise his head, but it was considerably better than before, when he was on his back. His arms are still tied together and it hurt when they were pressed against the bed by his weight, so now is really really better, they don’t hurt that much, they almost don’t hurt at all. But that doesn’t change anything. It still hurts. What he’s doing.

The Master.

Sitting on this ridiculously giant bed, way too far from him, looking, not saying anything. He’s only smiling. But his smile is cold and dry. Like a razor. He isn’t moving at all, except from his right hand, that’s very very slowly stroking himself. He knows this is too much for the Doctor that always wants to be involved, he’s so eager to have fun and please… The Master breathes slowly, steadily, savoring the frustration in the air. He could sense that as naturally as a predator senses there’s food nearby. It’s innate and makes him want to play, oh, so much.

He licks his lips and stops moving completely. The only thing moving is his hungry eyes and chest, nothing can be heard but his steady breathing, The Doctor is speechless in anticipation now, hoping that if he’s quiet and obedient, then, maybe, just maybe, The Master will change his mind…  
If only…

“Cat got your tongue, Doctah…?” he asks, enunciating the last syllable in a way that makes the aforementioned Doctah swallow hard.  
“I explained the rules to you more than once… And you know how serious I am with rules and how much I dislike repeating myself…” nods emphatically towards him while in the same time shredding his soul into pieces with his eyes. Those eyes… The Doctor loved them as much as he feared them.  
“I do not like it when you take initiative. Let’s say I’m a control freak… So, no, you don’t even try taking the control away from a control freak, not if you don’t want to end up hogtied for the rest of the evening or week…” Glances.  
“...or month… quite possibly…” Smirks.

The Doctor swallows once again and then says nothing. It’d only be against him, he knows. The Master is only taunting, he doesn’t really want him to answer. It’d be better if he stroked his larger than life ego by letting him talk and boast, until he grew tired and full of himself. Which wasn’t going to happen soon enough…  
He lowers his gaze and sighs as softly as he can at the mattress.

“So, I take it that you are regretting your inappropriate and disobedient attitude towards your Master. Good.”  
He nods majestically; his cockiness is violently pushing the oxygen off the room.

Gets up, leaving the Doctor’s field of vision. The Doctor tries to follow him with his eyes, but he can only stretch up to a certain point and cannot turn his head because of the way The Master has tied his arms behind his back. Even if he could, though, he doesn’t even try. The Master would undoubtedly see him, maybe he’d expect that as well, and he’d hit him or hurt him again. Better safe than sorry. Very worried though, because he can hear him open things and move around and can’t tell whether he’s making a sandwich or perhaps readying carving knives. Much as the Master could be predictable, he could be equally unpredictable and this unpredictability he demonstrates right away, by slamming the door behind him and leaving The Doctor alone in the room, lying on the bed, not being able to move.

He could never understand what was going into The Master’s head. Whenever he thought he did, or at least getting close, he always did something to prove him wrong.  
The Doctor whimpered softly once again. He’d have to wait for now.


	2. When you’re cold, I’ll be there to hold you tight

The Doctor tried to make his head comfortable on the cool linen. He turned on his left cheek, his right cheek, his jaw. He was more comfortable on his jaw, but after a while his muscles started to hurt and the nape of his neck turning sore. His arms have gone numb about an hour ago..? Two…? Anyway, yes, numb, so he didn’t have to worry about them hurting, not anymore. His shoulders and shoulder blades did, though. He attempted focusing on other things, forgetting himself. The linen sheets on the bed seemed to be of absolutely exceptional quality, only the best for The Master after all…

He always wanted the finest things. The Doctor could remember him being like that, back when they were kids. So long ago... So very painfully long ago. The Master haven’t changed much, he’s gone through a whole regeneration cycle and cheated his way into another – The Doctor would never take over a body, he’d never… Regardless of his appearance, however, and his personalities, he never changed too much; he was always the dark constant in The Doctor’s life. The one thing reminding him of home, of love and loss. Their endless fights, they were always too polarized to coexist, yet they needed each other, as if their lives were linked by invisible shackles, forever binding them together. The Master’s megalomania, his contempt and snobbism, violently repulsing The Doctor’s benevolence and altruism, but their shackles were keeping them close, no matter what…

The Master’s been the black hole, perpetually pulling The Doctor towards him, with devastating need, making him forget everything and even second-guess himself, this is what he always did to him. The Doctor was trying to hide it forever, relaxing when he was gone and out of sight, then, there he was again, making his life a mess, a steaming hot and unbelievably appealing mess that made him forget words and allegiances… Why’d he have to come back again…?

The Doctor sighed. Who was he trying to fool…? He was more than delighted to see him, but it meant trouble. The Master meant trouble, constantly and forever, since always.  
And always knew how to make an entrance.  
…which he just did. But it’s the rather sneaky type of entrance and, unlike his usual showy entrances, it’s completely silent. He was watching The Doctor all this time he was out; the room had hidden cameras he only had access to, so he waited for him to get bored and fall asleep to get back into the room. He left him alone for several hours, he deserved it anyway, and he was exhausted so he went out like a light after 2 or 3 hours of waiting and muttering at the mattress, a thing that The Master thought to be adorable, if not a bit pathetic. The Master takes his time, staring at The Doctor. So serene, like he’s devoid of worries completely. It’s only admirable he’s able to sleep in this position and bound like that… Well, unfortunately for him, he won’t be sleeping for long… The Master smiles, a very ill omen of a smile.

If the Doctor’s mind had a mouth, it’d be screaming at 150 dB now. This is beyond the threshold of pain and it’s almost as loud as snare drums played hard at 6 inches from your head. His vocal chords are preoccupied by doing nothing at all, because he’s busy having a shock and listening to his aforementioned brain screaming, which can be a really disorienting thing.  
What’s more disorienting, is that he doesn’t know what happened and he won’t find out until 20 minutes into the future, when he’ll finally collect his pieces and think straight.

The Master is delighted to watch him shiver uncontrollably and gape his mouth for 20 minutes. The Doctor’s eyes widen or they roll back and he’s choking, opening his mouth, trying to breathe and closing it again, struggling, not knowing what happened to him. The Master (who knows, since he caused it) leans on the wall and smiles, then walks towards the bed and sits, stretching on the pillows like a cat, getting comfortable to have a better view of the show. The Doctor gasping and flopping like a fish out of the water. He’d get popcorn, but that’d be too theatrical, he thinks, so he’ll just pour himself a drink and that’ll have to do for now.  
The Doctor’s eyes seem dead from the shock but, slowly, they start regaining their colour and their brightness, like life is pouring back into him. He’s still shaking, though. His mind started working again, since he’s not feeling like he has molten metal inside his cranium, both burning him and freezing him, not anymore. What a peculiar feeling. He does a quick inventory, his head feels ok, if it wasn’t for that impossible headache caused from the pain and tension. His arms..? Still numb, can’t feel them at all. Feet, still ok. But all the rest is a mess. He can’t feel anything because everything seems to still hurt.

“W….” The Doctor clears his throat and swallows. His lips are parched and his throat is dry.  
“What…. What did you do to me….?” He turns his head to look The Master straight in the eyes. The Master is smiling and sipping some spirit from a glass. Whiskey..? How can he be drinking whiskey when he’s all tied up in front of him and broken…? But, of course, he can. He always could… Not a bone of compassion in his body.

“Master…? Please answer me.”  
He’s trying not to sound desperate, but everything hurts and he’d so much like to stop hurting. Enough with the pain.  
“Master, I beg you… Please stop this. It hurts so much… I’m already at your mercy, why do you have to do this? Please, my Master…”  
He’s choosing his words carefully, hoping to get on his good side. But The Master smirks instead, nods at him and drinks more of his drink, running his tongue over his lips and the edge of the glass after each slow sip.  
“Please…” The Doctor’s voice is cracking as he suppresses a sob.

“My dear, dear Doctor… I’m saddened by the fact that you cannot appreciate the fun we’re having together… I wish you could see things my way for once…”  
The Master shakes his head sadly and pretends to sigh. He’s a really good actor when he wants to, but he botches it with irony on purpose. The Doctor swallows and tries to force himself not to protest. He really really shouldn’t.  
“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Doctor… I know what you need, you just have to admit it sometime and let me oblige you.”  
He smiles self-indulgingly.  
“All this is just an act to protest about the interrupted progression of your stimulation. I made them for you, those ice… insertables… Or, butt plugs if you’d rather prefer coarse language… But they have a certain disadvantage, which you just observed first hand… They melt.”  
Finishes his drink and stands up, brushes his fingers against The Doctor’s cheek (that has now started shivering, along with The Doctor himself) and walks towards the small refrigerator in the room. The Doctor can’t see it, be he can hear the door and now knows what it is. By Omega… why did The Master have to punish him like this…?

“Don’t worry, my dear… The fun is going to continue, just you wait..!"

The Doctor doesn’t have time to protest or try to reason with him, The Master won’t listen, he never ever does. He tries to crawl on the bed in vain, he can’t even move, no, it’s not fair, he shouldn’t…  
“Oh, no… no, dear…”  
The Master pats his back gently, smiles to him, winks, the world turns violently red and purple and blue and everything is screaming at 150dB again.


	3. I do not ask you much; I beg cold comfort

20 minutes. He’s been measuring time, 20 minutes by 20 minutes by 20 minutes…. That’s how long they last before they melt. He knows he’s marginally wrong, since he’s colder himself now, so they last longer inside him. But he accepts they last about 20 minutes, unless each time one melts The Master uses a bigger one. Because it really feels like that. He’s cold and then slowly, as each one melts, he’s coming to terms with how much they hurt, when his heat gradually comes back, it’s devastating. And then The Master inserts another (or rather pushes or thrusts into him, because clearly, that’s not simply inserting, no), which hurts more than the last one. Their mold must be faulty, on purpose of course. They feel full of spikes, cutting through his flesh like razors. And there must be something else in them. Maybe lemon, he thinks he can smell lemon but he’s unsure, he’s so confused in general and can’t focus. It stings so much… He can’t even tell if he’s bleeding, but he’s sure he is. Undoubtedly.

How many he made, he can’t even imagine. He’s counted 32 so far, so, unless he fainted The Master’s been torturing him like that for almost 11 hours now. But, as all Time Lords and other sentient and 4th dimension-aware beings know, time is relative. Those hours were excruciatingly slow. The hours to come will be equally excruciatingly slow, if not more. Such cruelty is beyond him. The Doctor did terrible things, but because he had to, to prevent other things. Worse things. The worst. The Master has no reason to treat him like this, not that he knows of, at least. It is really beyond him.

The Doctor shrieks in agony as The Master treats him to one of the ice spikes again. He’s starting to get used to it now. It’s kinda better, or at least, as better as this can be. He tries to swallow but his mouth is parched, his tongue dry and his throat feels like sand-paper.  
“Why are you doing this to me…?”  
His voice is croaky and brittle.  
“Please…”  
Tries to swallow again, no luck.  
“…Master… please… Just stop. Just stop this…”

The Master smiles and walks into view. Sits on the bed and then leans towards him, resting his chin on his arms, smiling amicably. He shakes his head, almost sadly. _No, he can’t, his dear Doctor_.  
“…At least give me some water... Please... I am thirsty…”  
The Doctor then gasps and opens his eyes wide because The Master doesn’t give him water. The Master somehow managed to give him his tongue to suck. He’s taking his mouth over by his cool, wet tongue that tastes like 30 year old whiskey. He breaks the kiss, or rather the invasion, too soon.  
“Have that instead of water. You don’t get to suck another Time Lord’s tongue that often nowadays… Not too many left.”  
The Master’s voice sounds too dry and his gaze grows distant. Is this punishment for Gallifrey, then?  
“I do hope you feel better now… Shall we..?”  
“…why are you doing this? Answer me please…”  
“Doctor… I think you are being very persistent when you really shouldn’t.”  
“Make me understand then…”  
“Don’t you worry, I fully intend to.”

The Master smiles to The Doctor. It is a very earnest smile, full of good intentions and compassion. This is why The Doctor is absolutely sure The Master is faking it, so, he starts shivering uncontrolably and trying to break free, go as far away from The Master as he can. The latter darts forward and shoves his tongue into The Doctor’s mouth again and in the same time he pushes the whole spike into his rectum with his index finger. The Doctor screams but his screams are muffled by The Master’s tongue, who is rather enjoying getting hit by the feedback. The Doctor’s screams are so powerful they make his own vocal chords vibrate, tuning to his.

He could have bit him, if he wasn’t in so much pain and if he wasn’t holding back.  
The Doctor’s still holding back, no matter how angry or frustrated he is; in the back of his head The Master is still his friend, one that could be reasoned with, perhaps. To him, there’s still a chance he could help and cure him of whatever’s causing all this madness and calling for revenge. When you want to help, when you really really want to help, that is, you hardly kick back if they kick you. You just protect yourself and maybe walk away to come back when you are better prepared. The Doctor can’t really tell what he’d have done if he wasn’t holding back, if he wanted to hurt The Master, but the thing is he can’t and he won’t so he is being obedient, if weeping silently and accepting your fate stoically counts as obedience.

Counting galaxies, categorizing, indexing, he has to keep his mind occupied, trying to remember the names of all of them, even the ones that don’t exist anymore, the ones that time itself forgot.  
Put the pain aside, forget, forget everything.  
Forget the past.  
Forget the pain. Past pain, present pain, future pain. Psychological, emotional and actual material pain, neural connection screaming in electrical languages and quantities you can measure. The pain is a fact, you could always ignore certain facts, now disregard this and put it away, shove it in the back of your head, ignore, suppress.  
Ignore his tongue. Forget what he did with it in the past, what he’s doing now. It’s not the same, it never will be, will it..?

The Doctor tries to breathe, his mouth is occupied by The Master, and he is preoccupied by kissing him, goodness knows why, does he get off on it? Is it teasing..? Probably both, The Doctor wonders and inhales from his nose. He can smell The Master’s skin and hair. The oxygen numbs things a bit and throws a protective gooey cover over everything, the illusion of the pain being distant and less present. In a way it helps. The Master’s smell doesn’t.  
The Doctor finds himself in another unpleasant and awkward situation. Despite of all the pain and humiliation he is starting to get aroused because of the familiar smell and direct contact. And the kissing, of course. No matter how many times The Master regenerates, The Doctor can always recognize him by his smell. He smells like oak and honey, grapes and earth, blood and death. He often smells of death. It’s not even surprising anymore, The Doctor thinks. In a twisted way, The Master smells like home. Does he really, or is it his desire to remember it like that? Probably the latter. Tumbling on the warm soil and tugging at the vines, hidden in the vineyard. Biting dusty grapes between kisses and licking the juice off each other’s lips. Koschei making him hush with his hand over his mouth as he did depraved things to him, while hiding in the vines. Theta feeling embarrassed but loving every minute of their rebellious and carefree acts. Running his fingers through Koschei’s hair..

No. Block it, Doctor. Detach yourself. The Master is not that man anymore, he’s buried that man so deep inside him, he needs help. The Doctor moans in his throat. The pain is less now but The Master is still attached on his lips, filling him with his tongue, claiming, making a point. The Doctor can’t get his point. Not yet. But he’s sure he has one. The Master has never been spontaneous, however crazy and irrational his behavior may have seemed. He always had an agenda and knew what he wanted. And whatever he wanted he’d always express his interest in getting it.

Maybe he wanted The Doctor this time, just like that. And since he was there, The Master saw no reason to stall by being indirect.


End file.
